Ottessa Moshfegh - Eileen

“They?” I asked.

Mrs. Polk didn’t answer. She just bent forward, shook her head back and forth, stunned, it seemed, by her own words. I heard Rebecca’s footsteps through the house again, even-tempoed but slow. Mrs. Polk looked up toward the ceiling, huffed, fighting back more tears. “Who do you tell? I wasn’t going to tell anyone. You do the best you can. You know what happens when you have children? Your husband never looks at you the same. I blamed myself, you know. I ate too much. And Mitch didn’t find me attractive anymore. We hadn’t been together in years before that started, with Lee. Then it just became habit, the way things went. I was alone all day, you know. I was a housewife. I had nobody else, you understand. Mitch didn’t talk to me, just came home, ate his dinner, drank, and I was just a stranger in the room, a nuisance. He could barely stand me. But after he went to bed with Lee, he’d come to me. And it was like a big burden had been lifted. He was relaxed. And it felt good, how he’d hold me. He loved me then. He was tender. I knew he loved me. He would show it. He’d whisper and kiss me and say nice things. It was the way it had been before, when we were young and happy and in love, and it felt good to me. Is that so wrong? To want to feel that way? I even got pregnant once, but I lost it. I didn’t care. I had my husband back. You wouldn’t understand,” she said, looking up at me. “You’re young. You haven’t had your heart broken.”

But I understood her perfectly. Of course I did. Who wouldn’t?

She began to cry again, solemnly this time.

“There, there,” I said, the first time in my life I had ever sincerely tried to comfort anyone. We sat in silence for a moment. Then we heard the door open, footsteps. We both turned to watch Rebecca float down the stairs, carrying a pad of paper and a pen.

“Will you untie me now?” Mrs. Polk looked at me. “I’ve said everything.”

Rebecca looked at me suspiciously. I nodded. “It’s true,” I said, all my rage now gone. Mrs. Polk’s eyes darted nervously from Rebecca’s face to mine, then down at the gun on the floor.

“We’ll untie you once you agree to our terms,” Rebecca said. “And sign a contract. Eileen,” she looked at me incredulously. “What did she say?” I wasn’t going to repeat to Rebecca what Mrs. Polk had said. There was no polite way to phrase it. Rebecca grunted in frustration. “Eileen,” she whined. To Mrs. Polk she said, “You’ll have to write it all down, or else our deal is off.”

“What deal?” Mrs. Polk was now clear-eyed, flushed more with anger than fear.

“The deal is you admit what you’ve done and we don’t kill you.” Rebecca was angry now, too, at Mrs. Polk and at me, it seemed. “Hand me the gun, Eileen,” Rebecca said gruffly. I did as I was told. I didn’t want her to turn against me. She stood back looking down at Mrs. Polk, as I had done earlier. “Tell me what you told her,” she insisted, holding the gun awkwardly, her elbows bent outward, her fingers closed over the barrel. Mrs. Polk looked at me, as though I could save her.

“Be careful,” I told Rebecca. She rolled her eyes.

“Rita,” she said. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Shoot me,” the woman cried. “I don’t care anymore.” I could barely breathe under my wool scarf. I lowered it from my face and wiped my sweaty cheeks with the cuff of my coat.

“I know you,” said Mrs. Polk suddenly, dismayed. “You’re the girl from Moorehead.”

Rebecca turned to me, shocked. “What are you doing, Eileen?” I fumbled to pull the scarf back up.

“She already knew my name,” I said in my defense. “Rebecca.”

What happened next is still unclear, but as far as I could tell, Rebecca took one hand off the gun to pull back the cuffs of her robe, and when she gripped the gun again, her hands shook, she fumbled and the gun fell and fired as it hit the floor. The blast stopped us all from breathing. I crouched down and froze. Rebecca hid her face in her hands and turned away from us. Mrs. Polk was silent, drew her fat legs up to her large chest, exposing her fleshy calves and knees. Outside the dog began to bark again. And then, the blast still echoing in my ears, we three looked at one another.

“Shit,” said Rebecca. She pointed at Mrs. Polk’s right arm, a quickly spreading darkness seeping through her quilted housecoat.

“You shot me?” Mrs. Polk asked, her voice suddenly childlike with disbelief.

“Shit,” Rebecca said again.

Mrs. Polk started to scream again, struggling against her restraints. “I’m bleeding!” she cried. “Call a doctor!” She became hysterical, as anyone would.

“Hush,” said Rebecca, going to Mrs. Polk’s side. “The neighbors will hear you. Don’t make it any worse. Quit fussing,” she said, covering the woman’s mouth with her hand. I had warned Rebecca about the gun. Mrs. Polk would be fine, I assured myself. A superficial flesh wound was all I thought she’d suffered. Her arm was wide and fatty. No great harm had occurred, I thought. But the woman could not be soothed. She panted like a crazed animal and shook her head violently against Rebecca’s hold, trying to scream for help. I picked up the gun, and feeling the strange heat through the grip, I was struck with an idea.

You can think what you want, that I was vicious and conniving, that I was selfish, delusional, so twisted and paranoid that only death and destruction would satisfy me, make me happy. You can say I had a criminal mind, I was pleased only by the suffering of others, what have you. In a moment’s time I figured out how to solve everyone’s problems — mine, Rebecca’s, Mrs. Polk’s, my father’s. I came up with a plan to take Mrs. Polk to my house, shoot her, wait until she died, leave the gun in my father’s hands — he would be passed out drunk — then drive off into the sunrise. Yes, of course I wanted to run off, and all the more if Rebecca would come with me. And yes, I thought killing Mrs. Polk was the only way to save Rebecca and me from the consequences of Rebecca’s scheme. If Mrs. Polk were dead, no one would know that Rebecca and I had been involved, I figured. We’d be free.

But I was also thinking of my father. Nothing I could do would ever inspire him to dry out for good, get straight, be the father I wanted. He couldn’t even see how sick he was. Only a massive shock would wake him up. If he believed he’d killed an innocent woman, that might be enough to shake him. Then he might see the light, accept the truth of his condition. He might have a change of heart. If they asked my father why he shot Mrs. Polk, maybe he’d mutter something about me and Lee, suggesting he thought that Lee was my boyfriend. The police would see he’d really lost his mind. They’d put him in prison maybe, but more likely they’d take him to a hospital, treat him well, nurse him back to health. I’d be long gone, of course, but at least he’d have the presence of mind to miss me, to regret what he’d put me through, to wish he could somehow make amends.

And as for me, I’d put off my escape from X-ville for long enough, my desire to leave always outweighed by my laziness and fear. If I killed Mrs. Polk, I’d be forced out of X-ville once and for all. I’d have to change my name. I’d have to completely disappear. Only fear of imprisonment, restitution, could propel me to leave. I could stay in X-ville and face hell, or I could disappear. I gave myself no choice. Shooting Mrs. Polk was the only option.

But how would we get Mrs. Polk to my house without her screaming the whole ride long? I wondered, turning the gun over in my hands. She bucked and stomped, wailing and gnashing her teeth as Rebecca shushed her and tried to stifle the screams by pressing her hands over the woman’s mouth, but it was like stopping a break in a dam — Mrs. Polk refused to quiet down. Her arm was bleeding, but not profusely. Rebecca looked at me in desperation.